of art to dispel the storm and stress of daily life. To quote from Philipp Nae- gelè s translation: When the magic sounds enchant And the word's solemnity speaks forth, Glorious things must come to be, Night and storms then turn to light. In a way, the "Choral Fantasy" is Beethoven's Ninth without the world- historical baggage-the perpetually unfulfilled promise of liberation. Instead, it is an anthem of musiè s celebration of it- self Hence, perhaps, Serkin's abiding love for the piece. Goode told me, "Many people felt that Serkin playing the 'Choral Fantasy' was a unique experience that could never be du- plicated. After he died, the work was re- tired, and I thought that was the right de- cision. To my surprise, a few years later people said, 'You know, I think we have to have a "Choral Fantasy.'" We needed the catharsis." I t is never an especially polished affair. Serkin instituted the practice of inviting staff members, supporters, and musically inclined neighbors to sing in the chorus. Members of Marlboro's vocal program take the solos, guaranteeing that at least some of the singing will be on pitch and at full power, but there are always odd noises. In what had to be considered the final prank of the summer, one of the singers, the generally discerning tenor William Ferguson, decided that I should join the chorus. Trained as a pianist and an oboist, I have practically no singing experience, but nonetheless I was herded into the baritone section for the final re- hearsal. I stood in front of two formida- ble young singers, the baritone John Moore and the bass-baritone Jeremy Galyon, who encircled me with such stentorian tones that I could almost be- lieve I was making them myself "I heard you," Ferguson said afterward, a little ambiguously. At the podium was the pianist and conductor Ignat Solzhenitsyn, who grew up in Cavendish, Vermont, fifty miles to the north of Marlboro. His father, the novelist, had died the week before, and he had just returned from the funeral, in Moscow. The orchestra was a mixture of Marlboro-ites junior and senior, with Ar- nold Steinhardt sitting uncomplainingly in the back row and Soovin Kim serving as concertmaster. (Steinhardt wore a sign on his back: "Property of David Soyer .") HINCr5 WILL TURN ARouNt> EVEt{TUALLV." 21fB:tk . In trading Beethoven's ideas back and forth, the musicians were recapittÙating in musical terms relationships that had formed over the summer. Uchida smiled or wiggled her eyebrows when different players took up the principal melody, as if resuming conversations that she had begun over Eggs McMarlboro at the coffee shop. "It's great," Rebecca Ringle said to me during a break in the rehearsal. "You know everyone. Romie gets the theme, then James gets the theme." The hall was packed for the perfor- mance, with many longtime friends of Marlboro in the crowd. Uchida assumed concert mode, unleashing the full strength of her mighty left hand in the ominous C-minor chords that open the piece. Throughout, she indulged in a bit more Romantic flamboyance than she ordinar- ily allows herselE She also issued a smat- tering of wrong notes, as if in tribute to Serkin's philosophy of seeking the perfec- tion beyond precision-the truth of the noblest, most honest effort. The great moment for the chorus comes in the in- sistendy joyous setting of the line 'When love and strength are wed": "Und Kraft! Und Kraft! Und Kr-a-a-a-a-Jt!" I had the feeling of being carried along by an enor- mous wave, and, however approximate the sound coming from my throat, it added to the power of the mass. And I ïI-- r EANWI-!'LE..... ] . reflected on the fact that even the most exalted music-making comes from an ac- cumulation of everyday labor, inseparable from human relationships. "I t was at least inspired," Uchida said afterward. "Not the cleanest, but bloody inspired." On my way home, driving along Route 9 toward the interstate, I took a detour and stopped at a little white church in Guilford. Rudolf Serkin is buried in the churchyard there, a few feet away from Adolf Busch. The violinist's name is al- most hidden by thick-growing bushes, which metaphorically suggest what Busch and Serkin achieved when they came to America. At a time when Hitler was dragging German music into the mire, these pure spirits succeeded in transplant- ing their tradition to Vermont. In a wider sense, Marlboro represents the migration of tradition across centuries and conti- nents: a Japanese-born woman passing along her understanding of Mozart and Schoenberg to new generations of Amer- ican kids. Marlboro is an enchanting place, but, in the end, there is nothing es- pecially remarkable about it. The remark- able thing is the power of music to put down roots wherever it goes. . NEWYORKER.COM Listen to music from Marlboro.